


Raised By Wolves

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Gen, Humiliation, Omorashi, Sorrow of Werlyt spoilers, inappropriate use of a glass of milk, what happens in garlemald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29612961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: He’s shouting at her again, and she knows exactly what she has done to deserve it. Allie squirms where she stands, tries to make herself smaller. But Valens is too much and too close, and there’s no further way to squeeze herself down.Allie did not have a nice life after Gaius left. This is just another ordinary day.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Raised By Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot wait to punch this man in the face.

He’s shouting at her again, and she knows exactly what she has done to deserve it. She knows because it comes right after her squadron report, after her mispronunciation of the stupid Southern Coast town they were stationed at. She should correct herself on that first statement — he is not shouting per se, not like an angry man, he’s doing it like he’s trying to stifle a laugh. Mimicking her words, voice lilting. He’s a joker punching down, and she is all that lies beneath him.

Allie squirms where she stands, tries to make herself smaller. But Valens is too much and too close, and there’s no further way to squeeze herself down. When he zones in, he zones in like a homing missile.

‘It’s a simple distinction,’ he says, his voice falling soft, and anyone who didn’t know him better might be relieved to hear the change in intensity, but Allie knows him too well for that.

She says nothing. Her mind has gone blank.

He reaches out for her shoulders — _don’t flinch, don’t flinch for the love of the gods_ — and she is reminded yet again of how small she is as an Au Ra girl, how jealous she is of her taller, stronger brothers. Not that it makes a difference in the end — he hurts them just the same.

She doesn’t want to be here again, shrinking beneath his touch like so many times before and —  _heartbeats thump_ — for a moment the urge to claw her way to freedom reaches fever pitch inside her. If she has to look up at his vile face one more time, the upturned lip, the haggard cheekbones, the dancing mad eyes, she’ll make it end, one way or another. Scratch out her own eyes, if that’s what it takes. But because she doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea — there’s no proof that they’re listening in on her thoughts but there’s also no proof that they’re not — she tells herself that it is her fuck-up, that he wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t make it so godsdamned easy. Her eyes flicker to the silent children behind him. They all make it so godsdamned easy. 

He repeats himself, and a dangerous edge creeps into his soft, humorous voice. He’s growing impatient. ‘It’s a simple distinction, is it not? Marsalje. Soft “j”, don’t hiss it like a lizard. Can you do that for me?’

‘M-Marsalje.’ She says it too quiet, too quick, part of her hoping that, at least if she gets it wrong again, it will be too hard for him to tell. The other part of her is just too scared to speak up.

He tuts.

Alfonse is in the ranks behind them. Allie can feel his presence, she can feel him wanting to say something, he’s on the edge of it, and gods, if he does he might be nursing bruises for the next week to come.

‘Can the… rest of the squadron be relieved?’

Valens looks up like he had forgotten they were there. ‘Dismissed.’

She does not dare look behind her. That sharp intake of breath, though, that was unmistakeably Alfonse.

_You would do the same were our situations reversed,_ she thinks. In her eyes, she’s saving him.

That altruistic feeling lasts until the door slams closed behind her, leaving in the room just her, her surrogate father, and the ever-present, silent children.

His grip increases on her shoulders, and he asks her — very politely — to say it again.

She tries. It’s so obviously wrong, and she starts shaking. His fingers grip. And grip. And grip.

‘Why are you being so bloody difficult?’ Valens shakes her roughly, forces her to look directly at him.

She thinks of Alfonse, tries to see his kind silhouette reflected in those mad eyes. Zoning out whilst looking at them; she’s gotten quite good at that, because Valens would force her so often to focus, to look into his eyes as proof she was really, truly listening.

Valens, Valens, — his name echoes unwanted in her head, and each time it makes her feel sick.

_Stamp it out. Scratch it away. Stop it swirling in your head but for the love of all that is holy, don’t stop looking him in the eyes._

_He asked you a question. You should answer it._

‘I don’t mean to… I’m… I’m sorry.’

‘That’s not good enough, dear Allie. Not good enough! A bit more professionalism from you is what I expect.’ He strokes her cheek, avoiding the scales. She watches his thick lips twist into a smile. Then the joker’s grin distorts, and he slaps her. Always, somewhere in the back of her mind, she is expecting the hit, but whenever it comes it takes her by surprise. It is ever a game of not knowing when. She tries to stifle her gasp, to suppress the urge to raise her hand and rub the reddened skin.

Valens looks furious in the few seconds before he moves away. He goes to his desk, turns around, leans on it casually while he lords it over her. ‘You escalated this, don’t forget that.’

She stares helplessly back at him, mind racing, trying to calculate what would be best to say now. In the end, she merely nods.

‘So you understand,’ he says, and oh, those simple words bring a flush to her skin. A missile narrowly avoided. He basks in the moment for a bit, lets her bask in it too, then he says, ‘Now, I think some discipline is in order. Go stand in the corner for me, Allie.’

_Fuck._

Her eyes flicker to all available corners of the room; she sees everything in a flash without having to look directly, without having to divert attention from his grotesque fucking face.

‘Which c—’

‘Which one do you godsdamned think? Chop chop, lass.’

She teeters on the edge of an impossible decision, mind tripping over itself as she attempts to rationalise the good and bad of every corner in the room.  _Hurry up, you’re taking too long._

She takes the back right.

Valens smiles, warm and wide, and again comes the flush beneath her skin, as hot and dangerous as the burn of alcohol. Another hurdle: completed.

She stretches a little, settling into position as best she can. Her belt needs adjusting. She knows she’s going to be in this for the long haul.

‘No, don’t move. Did I say you could move? Stay where you are and think on your actions a while. When the appropriate time has passed, you may come back to join us.’ He gestures dismissively at himself and the children. They remain, as ever, impassive; a mere extension of him, no more than a limb.

This is the worst game in the book. No one ever knows how long the appropriate time is meant to be. So she stands there in silence, playing cactpot with the passing seconds, too afraid to shift her weight despite the onset of cramping in her calves. She listens as Valens talks to himself, to the kids, to everyone but her. After an hour, she starts to feel like a piece of living furniture, and the sensation is familiar. Heaven’s Fury, how he loves to talk about himself.

He only leaves the room for a brief five minutes. She does not dare hazard a glance at the children, she does not incite them to speak, out of fear for their safety. It’s one of the most powerful weapons Valens has, and how she detests that fact. He returns, pleased as punch, and dinner is brought to his desk. Glass of milk on the side. The smell of seared meat and warm stock permeates the room. Allie says nothing, tries to dampen the gurgling of her own stomach. Valens takes his time. His self-aggrandising physical workout comes later, takes place on the rug in the centre of the room. The savoury smell of stock becomes permeated with sweat. Officers come in to talk to him, and the few who look at her choose wisely to say nothing.

Eventually, she breaks formation. It must have been about five, maybe six hours. She’s dying for the bathroom, and her stomach is churning in its own acid. The narrow window shows it has been dark outside for a long while.

‘I… Legatus van Varro, please, I need to go to the bathroom.’

‘I don’t give you permission to leave.’ He still isn’t looking at her.

‘But I can’t—’

For the first time in forever, he looks at her. Thick caterpillar eyebrows all crooked beneath his fucking sloppy haircut — _but don’t think that part too loud._ His eyes are angry. His lips are thick with unsaid words. She feels her muscles tightening around the bone, ready to pull, contract. Run away, and other heresies.

‘I’m — I’m sorry—’

It doesn’t help. Takes him less seconds than there are people in the room to cross the carpet and hit her. It’s not a slap; his fist is closed. Pain bursts like a firework at her temple, momentarily blinding her.

She cries out — she can’t help it — and it only serves to enrage him more.

He hits her again.

‘Do you need to go so badly? Do you really have no self control?’

She tries to say sorry but his hands grasp her throat and he forces her to look at him while she chokes. She feels her eyebrows perking upwards, the truth is clear on her face for him to see. She does need to go, and he fucking knows it. He grips tighter, ever tighter, until she wheezes.

Then he lets go, and makes her kneel. Pushes her down by the head until she is on all fours like a dog.

‘You have to breathe to stay alive! You have to piss to stay alive too, so do it!’

_He can’t really mean it —_ is what she tells herself, but despite her inner protestations, she knows there’s no way out of this. Humiliation is ever the point, with him.

Even still, actually performing the act… the idea of it has her sweating cold. She breathes deep, reaches for her zipper…

And her hands are swatted away by his. Bigger, stronger, firmer, they grip her wrists and pull them forward. Back on all fours. ‘Not like that,’ he says, and while he sounds so stern, she can hear the smile in his words. He’s enjoying this.

She winces, hands on the floor in front of her, and lets it out. He grunts with satisfaction as she pisses herself. The shame burns hot in her belly but it doesn’t get a chance to stay; it’s overriden by fear in mere instants because she looks up to see his face contort in anger, and she can’t tell which emotion of his is more real. Most of the wetness is pooled in the linen of her trousers, and she knows that there is going to be no reputable way out of this. She will have to walk back to her quarters in shame once this is over. But more pressing than the issue of her own sullied clothes is the puddle spreading across Valens’s clean stone floor. The reason for his furious expression.

‘Disgusting. Look at this filth. Clean it up!’

She fumbles for something, anything; a scrap of her uniform sleeve will do and she tugs at it, trying to free it so it can be used as a soak. As if it’s going to have any real effect.

‘No, not with your uniform.’ Very pointedly, he licks his own lips, and his meaning is abundantly clear.

She gazes into his eyes desperately, searching for a shred of mercy. She finds none. She knows exactly what he means, but nothing can get her tongue close to the ground of her own free will. The realisation that she can’t, she absolutely can’t do this, is a terrifying thing.

He fists her hair, forces her head down, and a weak protest escapes her lips. She can’t help it. She’s inches away from the floor, the ammonia smell fills her nose, and her mind is a million yalms away.

‘No? Did you just say no?’

The pressure on her head releases and Valens stalks off to his bureau of tricks.

What he retrieves, she notices when she dares glance up, is a muzzle fit for a dog. She considers telling him that it’s really not necessary, but decides against it. Instead she stays still as a captured animal, skin thrumming softly as he crouches down before her and fastens the straps around her head. The metal grille fits so tight over her jaw she can barely open her mouth. She is very, very careful not to move, even when he tugs at her hair to fit it properly. She’s seen this used on Rex before, when he was being a particularly boisterious loudmouth, but this is her first. It feels alien. She detests it. It’s just a bunch of leather straps and buckles, but it feels like the Legatus himself is cradling her head, and that is somehow worse than being hit.

He locks it in place and pockets the key.

‘Twenty four hours of disciplinary treatment,’ he says, ‘and maybe then you will learn to use your tongue correctly.’

She tries to open her mouth, to say ‘Yessir’, but it’s far too restrictive and all she makes is an awkward murmuring noise. So she nods quickly instead. He smiles.

‘Let’s test out how effective it is. Drink this.’ And he hands her his unfinished glass of milk.

Allie accepts it automatically, but then stares at it for a moment, nonplussed. She already knows this isn’t going to work. Valens touches her shoulder, gently, too fondly for the situation they are in. ‘Go ahead,’ he says. ‘Try to drink.’

She steels herself for the inevitable mess. She tilts the glass towards her mouth, and milk spills over the grille, splashing down her front. White splashes cover her uniform, and barely any has made it into her mouth. It’s a disaster. It’s to be expected.

Valens seems incredibly pleased with this outcome. ‘Utterly hopeless,’ he says, and she gets the feeling he’s talking about her and not her situation. He takes the glass, setting it back on the table with more care and reverence than he has ever shown her, and he bids her to stand once again.

The urge to wipe at her milky face is overwhelming, but Allie stands with her hands at her sides, and waits in an uncomfortable silence for her next command. Valens strikes her one last time, hard and fast, evidently sick of the sight of her, and pushes her towards the door. ‘Get on with your duties.’

As she leaves, she sees him throw a towel to one of the children. ‘Clean this up.’ Words spoken carelessly. The tiny silhouette moves immediately in response, obeying without a second’s hesitation. Allie just does as she is told and leaves. It’s better than inviting more of his wrath upon any of them.

When she’s back in her quarters, she cries, hating how the muzzle stops her from wiping her tears away properly. She has no idea how to explain this to Alfonse. Gods, how she would entertain the thought of revenge if she wasn’t so afraid it would hurt him. So she cleans herself up, and with shaky steps, moves on with her duties.


End file.
